by Keith Yocum
“It’s nice to meet you, Craig, and yes, please call me Judy. Welcome to Perth. Our office, as you already know, works closely with WA police and concentrates on more serious crimes including illegal drugs and human trafficking. There are several initiatives currently involving the importation and distribution of heroin, fentanyl, and meth. You don’t have to read The West Australian to know how bad things have become lately. I’ve been on vacation and just getting up to speed on some of the cases on our plate. I believe you have the list of investigations we’re been tasked with?”
“Yes, I’ve read the files. Bloody anxious to get going on them.”
“Well, if it’s alright with you Craig, let’s run through them now to prioritize the list.”
“Brilliant.”
Dennis stopped calling it “instinct” a long time ago.
Instinct was an innate pattern of behavior in animals in response to a stimulus. The feelings Dennis had about people during investigations was not an innate impulse, like the desire to fly south in the winter, or hibernate; it was more like a finely tuned perception to a stimulus. And he felt it now, sitting in a living room in Bethesda, Maryland, listening to Nicholas Forrester talk about the disappearance of his wife.
“I can’t tell you how unbelievably shocking it is to get a phone call from New Zealand, thinking it’s your wife, when it’s the police department saying she’s missing. Missing!”
Forrester was in his mid-fifties, about five feet eight inches tall, with a receding hairline, hazel eyes, a firm, slightly flattened nose, and a sharp chin. He had a faint southern accent and was expressive and visibly upset about his wife’s disappearance.
Dennis perceived a hint, or whisper, of something hovering over Mr. Forrester’s conversation. Was it guilt? Perhaps he thought he should have traveled with her and none of this would have happened. Was it fear? What was he fearful of? Could it be anxiety? He had plenty to be anxious and depressed about.
But there was something that bothered Dennis.
“I know she saw patients in the home office downstairs,” Dennis said. “Did she have another office?”
“No, just the one here at home. I’ll show it to you. As I said earlier, I’m an economist with the Department of Agriculture and I work on Independence Avenue, so except for some evening patients, I really didn’t see her at work. Patients would park in the street and enter through the side door and sit in a little waiting room. Jane had the office sound-proofed to prevent people waiting from hearing anything, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I remember sitting in that waiting room many times, wondering what was being talked about in the next room,” Dennis said. “I was a former patient of hers.”
Forrester’s head tilted.
“Excuse me?”
“I was a former patient of hers. A while ago.”
“Oh. So, you know the layout down there? I guess I wasn’t aware that you saw her.”
He smiled in what Dennis took to be polite confusion.
“Did she ever complain about her patients?”
“Complain in what way?”
“That they were dangerous?”
“No, she didn’t see dangerous patients. That was not her expertise.”
“So, she never complained about a particular patient?”
“I didn’t say that. You asked about dangerous patients. She might complain about a patient being late, or canceling at the last minute, or being uncommunicative—stuff like that. But not because someone was dangerous.”
“Is it possible that she was seeing someone she felt was dangerous, but didn’t tell you about it?” Dennis asked.
“I suppose so. I mean, there are professional ethics about discussing patients outside of therapy. But I’m sure she would have mentioned something to me. Or I would have hoped so.”
“Did you know she was an approved therapist for the CIA?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know that?”
“She mentioned that a colleague had received approval to see CIA patients. I think she was intrigued by the idea. So, she applied and was accepted.”
“Did she talk about her agency patients?”
“No. She was prohibited from doing that, obviously.”
“Did she have a lot of agency patients?”
“I have no idea. As I said, she was prohibited from commenting on that part of her practice.”
Dennis sat back in the upholstered winged-back chair and glanced around the well-appointed living room of an upper middle-class—or lower upper-class—couple in the prime of their lives: family group photos on shelves, original artwork and lithographs on the walls, books on white bookshelves, antique oriental rugs, bric-a-brac from foreign travels.
“What do you think happened to your wife?” Dennis said.
“If we’re to believe the New Zealand police, she was abducted. I think that’s obvious. Why do you ask?”
“I’m curious whether you have any other theories?”
Forrester frowned. “No. Why would I have other theories? That’s an odd question.”
“Was your wife upset about anything before she left? Was she unhappy or depressed?”
Dennis noticed a minute, barely perceptible twitch of his hazel eyes.
“They asked me that in New Zealand, and it’s the same answer: no. Jane was looking forward to traveling with her friend Phyllis Caldecott. She was happy and content. She was the same Jane we all loved and cherished.”
“OK. Let me ask you about the two men you met in New Zealand: Rangi Winchester and Colin McCarthy. I believe they kept you informed of the investigation.”
“Yes, they did. They were professional and kind, given the circumstances.”
“Did you know they were members of the New Zealand intelligence services?”
“Maybe they told us. I know there was a shift in jurisdiction since it was an American tourist that was missing. I can check with my son Jack, but I’m certain that’s how they presented the change. Why are you asking about this?”
“I wanted to make sure you were aware they were not policemen.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Policemen investigate missing persons; intelligence officials do other things.”
“I don’t get your drift if there is one, Mr. Cunningham. My wife is still missing, and I don’t care if it’s the Royal Canadian Mounted Police helping, I’d like to know what happened to her. And why.”
“Do you know Phyllis Caldecott?”
“Yes. She’s another psychologist and one of Jane’s best friends. Phyllis is so upset she told me she’s seeing a therapist herself. She feels like she should have gone out with Jane to the drug store and none of this would have happened.”
“Do therapists go to therapy themselves?” Dennis said.
“They do if they require treatment. You seem ignorant about the mental health field for someone who was treated by my wife.”
“Dr. Forrester was an excellent therapist, as far as I was concerned. She helped me a great deal. I’m sorry to be pressing you on some of these things, but as I explained earlier, there is a great deal of urgency within the agency to validate certain facts about your wife’s disappearance.”
“I could care less about what the agency wants to do; that’s hardly my family’s concern. We want to know what happened to Jane. She may be alive, for god’s sake. If the CIA can help, great. If not, I don’t know why we’re talking to you.”
Dennis smiled sympathetically, leaned back and put his hands on the two armrests.
“I understand. Can I ask you a final question? I was wondering if I could see your wife’s therapy notes. The ones she kept on her patients. In my sessions with her, she wrote things down in a notebook. I’m sure she has those stored in her office under lock and key.”
Forr
ester’s face wrinkled in surprise, then confusion.
“I can’t show you those records. Those are protected by HIPAA and a host of professional ethical rules. Have you heard of the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act?”
“Vaguely. But if I could see those notes it might help me understand whether her disappearance was related to one of her patients here. At this point, I’m only asking to see the notes of her active agency clients. She must have kept those notes separate.”
“I can’t do that,” he said. “I’m sure if the agency wants to get a court order, I suppose I have no choice. You really should familiarize yourself with HIPAA, Mr. Cunningham. It’s not a trivial matter.”
The bar was a nondescript joint in a small strip mall in McLean, Virginia, across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C. It was a mile from the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the official name of the CIA’s headquarters.
The bland atmosphere, simple menu, and single TV set over the bar, made it the perfect gathering place for some of the old-timers in law enforcement and intelligence agencies. Bar regulars were retirees, some still employed, and some contractors—but all liked to drink.
Dennis said hello to the bartender, a tall man named Steve with a shock of white hair stretching skyward like the crest of a cockatoo. Steve always wore a long-sleeved white polyester shirt and black slacks.
“Where the hell have you been?” Steve said. “Thought you were dead.”
“I pulled a Lazarus; I’m back.”
“So, they got sun down there in Hades? I thought it was just plain fire and a little brimstone. You have a nice tan.”
“You can get a tan from a hot fire.”
“I guess. What can I get you?”
“You have a cabernet?”
“Shit, you have changed. Since when do you drink wine?”
“Since I rose from the dead.”
“OK, one cabernet sauvignon coming up for the man who came back from the dead.”
A heavy-set man with a belly protruding over his belt took up the stool next to Dennis.
“Got your message,” the man said, slightly out of breath. “Nice to see you again. Thought you were dead.”
“Everyone thinks I was dead. Why the hell is that?”
“Not many of us geezers around here anymore. Guys dropping like flies or moving to Florida. Hell, I have high blood pressure and I’m pre-diabetic, or that’s what my doc says. What the hell does he know?”
“He’s a doctor, that’s what he knows. You should listen to him, Karl.”
“Those doctors make too much money, that’s what I know.”
“What’s that got to do with their advice?”
“I’m pissed off that he makes so much money and doesn’t do shit except look at his computer screen. Used to be, they’d look at you and ask questions. Nowadays, they look at their computer screens when they ask questions, then they type. Feels like I’m seeing a stenographer instead of a doctor, for chrissakes.”
Steve slid Dennis’s wine glass over to him.
“What the fuck is that?” Karl asked.
“Lazarus here is now drinking wine,” Steve said. “He said it was so hot in hell that they let him out because he was bitching so much. Now he’s going high class so when he goes back, they’ll keep the flamethrowers down a bit, you know?”
“Think I’ve seen about everything,” Karl said, shaking his head. “Goddamn wine drinker.”
“Take it easy, Karl, or you’ll pop an aneurysm,” Dennis said.
“What do you got for me?” Karl asked. “It sounded urgent.”
“I need a background check and surveillance on someone here. Round-the-clock surveillance. Has to start immediately, like in ten minutes.”
Steve brought Karl’s Seagram and water, then left.
“Is this official work for a government agency we cannot mention, or is it something else?”
“It’s both.”
“Don’t give me that shit.”
“It’s a contract from a government agency. I’m retired, or at least I was. I have an open checkbook on this.”
“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Karl said, taking a long sip.
“Can you do it?”
“Yeah, I can do it. Cost you $5,000 cash to start, plus a grand a day until you’re satisfied, or you drop dead, whatever comes first.”
“You haven’t lost your refined sense of humor.”
“What can I say? It’s the work we do. Gotta laugh sometimes. Who’s your target?”
Dennis pulled out a piece of paper and slid it over to Karl, who looked at it, then put it in his shirt pocket.
“What’s the deal?”
“Guy is the husband of a woman that disappeared on a foreign trip. He works for Agriculture, is a bit of a stiff, and I need to find out everything about him as fast as possible. Need to strike him off a small list. I’m in a rush. You sure you can do this fast?”
“Does a bear defecate in the woods? Of course, I can. Got an ex-D.C. cop who will do the tailing, and I’ll use someone else for the backgrounder. How do I get hold of you?”
“I have a burner, and the number is on the piece of paper I gave you. Call me as soon as you have something. I need to know if he’s a gambler, a cross-dresser, gay, straight, a neo-Nazi; everything.”
“No problem. Where’s my $5,000?”
“I brought $2,000; didn’t think you’d be asking for $5,000 to start. Here’s the two. I can meet you later today or tomorrow for the other three.”
“No need. Just add it at the end.”
“Happy hunting,” Dennis said, pushing away the empty wine glass. “Remember, I need this fast.”
“Alright already. Glad to see you’re not dead.”
“I am definitely not dead, at least I don’t think so.”
“How is it going?” Judy asked.
“Hell, I lost a day crossing the dateline, or that’s what Louise told me,” Dennis said. “This case is like grappling in the dark for something to hang on to.”
“You’re working with Louise again?”
“Well, ‘working with’ is a little strong. I’m tolerating her, let’s say. Or maybe she’s tolerating me. I don’t know. I can’t believe I got suckered into doing this damn thing. Everyone’s yelling at me for going in the wrong direction, and time is running out. God, what a mess. But that’s my sordid life. Hey, I forgot. How is your dad?”
“They put two stents in. Amazing what they can do nowadays. He’s home and causing his normal trouble.”
“I’m glad he’s doing well. I like your stepdad. Piss and vinegar, but with a touch of sugar every now and then.”
Judy laughed. “I’ve never heard you refer to him that way. That’s very funny, Yank.”
“And how about you? How’s work?”
“Ah, yes, work. I have a new partner. He’s young and full of energy. But it does make things a little complicated. I have to explain why I’m doing this or that; he asks a lot of questions. Daniel and I worked so well together. We never had to justify or explain things to each other.”
“What happened to Daniel?”
“Nothing. He has a new partner too. I guess they wanted to shake things up. Though I have a nagging feeling—and Daniel agrees—that they split us up after the Golden Bay incident. Makes the partner change seem punitive, which is ridiculous. But don’t get me started.”
“I wish I was back in Perth,” Dennis said. “I miss you. I’m living out of a suitcase again, and it seems like I never retired.”
“You said you were bored.”
“I was bored, but now I’m thinking that being a little bored is better than being squeezed from every direction by people I don’t understand and trust.”
“The good news is that you only have eight more days to make your r
eport,” she said.
“And the bad news is that I only have eight more days to make my report,” he said.
“Just come back to Perth in one piece. I’m lonely.”
“First plane out on day zero.”
It was 9:30 in the morning and Dennis was still hungover from his flight and short stay in the D.C. area. His muscles ached, his eyesight blurred, and he found himself hunching forward when he sat as if he needed to concentrate to stop from falling asleep.
Kyle Keating was not happy to be sitting across from Dennis in a cold, empty office deep in the bowels of Langley. Dennis had commandeered a spare, unused office to chat with the agency’s top Iran analyst.
Keating’s chart said he was fifty-eight years old, but Dennis thought he looked like he was forty-eight.
Some lucky bastards just do not age, he thought.
Keating wore a blue, long-sleeved dress shirt, a maroon striped tie, a brown tweed sports jacket, and navy-blue slacks.
His wire-rimmed glasses tended to focus attention on his dark-brown eyes, the same eyes that were glaring at Dennis.
“Who are you again?” Keating asked, fiddling with a pen that he apparently intended to take notes with.
“Dennis Cunningham. I’m a former member of OIG here. I’ve been hired as a contractor for a special project run out of the director’s office.”
“OIG? What’s that got to do with me?”
“I’m a retired staffer in OIG; this has nothing to do with that office.”
“So, what’s going on? I get a notice this morning from Simpson’s office saying I need to meet with a Dennis Cunningham today on an urgent issue. No explanation, no details; just go to this office and wait. I can’t ever remember being in this part of Langley before. These offices looked abandoned from the Vietnam-War era.”
Dennis smiled—or his best attempt at smiling—in order to calm Keating.
“Please don’t interpret our meeting as anything more than an attempt to clarify a few things that are of a sensitive nature.”
“Everything we do here is of a sensitive nature,” Keating said, throwing his pen onto his notepad. He sat back and crossed his arms in front of his chest in the universal body language of resistance.
